Dead Angels Speak
by Virgins-and-Surgeons
Summary: When no one else is around, Sosuke Aizen takes pleasure in ruining the memory. Aizen/Illusionary Aizen, dub-con, dark


A desolate throne room, bleached bone white. The air of the room was so stale and dead as to be near suffocating, thick with ominous intentions and foreboding murmurs of plans far from merciful. Near always did it hold at the very least a handful of demons in human skin, three of which were the most human and the least humane of the entire white castle in the rolling sands of Hueco Mundo. But at this moment, a very rare time when there was no meeting and no smiling or blind men lingering around the edges of the room, there were only two within the ominous room. One was very regally sitting in a throne, a smirk so very close to becoming a snarl on his lips and fingers knotted in soft brown hair. The other was on his knees before the throne, a blank white Captain's coat hanging loose off of his shoulders and the occasional choke or muffled gagging cough emitted to break the oppressive silence of the grandoise throne room.

"Even when you are like this, you remain." Aizen muttered with more than a bit of cruel satisfaction at the false version of himself on his knees, forced into giving his creator such satisfaction in watching the mentor, the father figure of Seireitei gagging on another man's member shoved roughly down his throat. Sweat plastered his bangs to his forehead, and the illusion was so near perfect, sans the emptiness behind his eyes. It had taken time to craft the real, pathetic identity that the true Sosuke Aizen had used, the mantle worn for centuries. It would only take time until the illusion was perfect in imitating the kind, fatherly Captain of days long gone.

Suddenly the illusion was wrenched off of his creator and forced down to his hands and knees, and the true Aizen forced the insufferably kind, genial smile on the double's face. The eyes were still devoid of kindness or warmth, but all Aizen needed was the smile. Two fingers hooked in the illusory Aizen's mouth, before a third joined and traveled further and further, until he was gagging on them.

"How I love to destroy you." The true Aizen mumbled with the lack of a smirk; only disdain could be seen in his eyes as he gave a hard shove to the much-beloved Captain Aizen and watched him sprawl on the hypothermic floor with a soft, pained yelp. It was quickly enough that the real Aizen was over the fake, one hand firmly in the Captain's hair and pulling back somewhat, as the other was already pulling off the loose Captain's coat and tossing it aside with disdain, as if the fabric burned his fingers. A slight whimper from the bespectacled illusion; it was repeated with slightly more volume when the Lord of Las Noches decided he was feeling just a bit playful today towards the Fifth Company Captain and ran his tongue up the illusion's neck, pulling harder on his hair to get more access. Hands gripped the front of his uniform tightly, making the real Aizen able to play into the illusion that it was a helpless creature beneath him, the pathetic shinigami loved by nearly all but absolutely loathed by one. The illusion's hakama were tossed aside, and Aizen hooked his fingers in the fake's mouth and gagged him again, smirking viciously as it attempted to bite him to make him let go. The kindness in the illusion's smile (currently gone and replaced with a discomforted grimace), the realism of the fake, it was all so close to perfect. Aizen could look upon his creation and for a moment, the same moment that he slid his fingers out of the creature's mouth and trailed them down its neck, along its spine and quickly thrust them into the false man below him to the tune of a short cry, could immerse himself in the illusion. He could pretend this thing was real, and that this 'man' was the Captain he hated, and that he was destroying this pathetic excuse for a man.

"I want you dead. I want you ruined." Aizen's free hand ran through the Captain's hair in a mocking imitation of a soothing gesture, as he scissored his fingers and then added a third, for good measure. The thing below him shivered, quaked, sighed; it was completely under his control, but as long as Aizen didn't look into its empty, soulless eyes, he could pretend that it was the real thing he was destroying. Withdrawing his fingers, Aizen positioned himself at the Captain's entrance and entered with one harsh thrust, the fake giving a jump and a shout, muffled with Aizen's hand over its mouth. The pace of thrusts became rougher, faster, while Aizen dragged his nails down the illusion's shoulders to see it bleed, keeping his other hand in its hair and continuing to run his fingers through it gently. The illusion stared at nothing behind foggy glasses, gripping the creator's shoulders tightly and groaning on command.

Aizen finished with one final thrust, the illusion giving a shaky moan as he did. The turncoat Captain pulled out and righted himself quickly, before looking over at the quivering, pathetic creature on his white floor. He smirked, before it faded into thin air to leave no trace except for the drawn Kyoka Suigetsu laying in the seat of the throne. The only Aizen, the real Aizen, walked back to the throne and sheathed his Zanpakuto, taking his seat and waiting for the others to arrive.

They would, and then Sosuke Aizen could show all of Seireitei exactly how dead their Captain Aizen was.


End file.
